


The Easterling - Book One

by Helcaraxe



Series: The Easterling [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Monsters, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27384382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helcaraxe/pseuds/Helcaraxe
Summary: The year is 227 of the Fourth Era. The lands of Tamriel are in turmoil. The aftermath of the Second Great War plagues the northern states that make up the remnants of the Empire in the wake of a renewed Aldmeri Dominion while the newly independent kingdoms of Hammerfell, Orsinium, Daggerfall, and Skyrim hold together by the tenuous threads of alliance, sustained almost solely at the expense of their common enemy.But this is not a story of nations, nor kings and queens, emperors and gods. This is the story of one man in a world where warmth and cheer are all the sweeter for their rarity. And all the more rare they are for a member of the Order of White Cairn, a guild of monster hunters for hire, made up of outcasts, former criminals, and anyone who no longer truly has a place among people.Trying to forget the past that he can never truly escape, he looks forward, hoping for a brighter future. But what the future has in store for him could be more than what he bargained for...
Series: The Easterling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000476
Kudos: 3





	1. The Hunter

“Describe it to me again.”

Hervird sighed as he put down a freshly shined tankard and a worn down rag. If the persistent young man with long raven hair and beard opposite of him wasn’t his only other customer, he would have called the guards on him by now.

“Ain’t doin’ that, boy. I told you already: it’s just another werewolf attack. The elders will hire the Companions, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And I told _you_ already, old man.” he growled, the pause of emphasis before the last part catching with venom, “I know a bloody werewolf attack when I see one. If that was one of Hircine’s pups, the house would be redder than that mound of tow on your scalp.”

He paused, allowing himself a slight smirk as the bartender’s hand reached up to his raring ginger hair. He’d struck a nerve, he thought to himself.

“Now,” he continued, “you could spare yourself the nerves, your entire town a lot of coin, and me a lot of time, if you would just tell me what you saw that night.”

Defeated, Hervird sighed and picked up another tankard.

“Aight, fine. Might as well.” He stopped for a moment, trying to recall the memories.

“But this time,” the stranger added abruptly, “why not tell me what actually happened?”

Hervird’s jaw dropped. The youth on the other side of the bar knew that he was being fed hogwash for three times in a row. Why didn’t he just call him out then and there?

He shuddered. The truth would not come easy. But the nervous beat of the strangers mailed fingers on the counter let him know that it was his best bet to simply comply.

“It was sometime past midnight, I reckon,” he started, paying more attention to scrubbing out a dark spot on the tankard’s handle than to the youngster who now listened attentively. “I went behind the house to, ah, pour out some of the beer I had earlier that night. I was just about done when I heard noises from Frodnar’s house.”

He paused. He didn’t enjoy recounting the events of that night, still so fresh in his mind.

“Go on.”

The tone of the young man’s voice surprised him. No longer arrogant, it was now calm and focused, with a note of compassion in it. He lifted his gaze from the cup and his eyes met the ones of those that sat opposite of him: one blue like clear midnight, the other much lighter, like ice on water. A long, uneven scar stretched across the right side of his face, straight over his brow, and Hervird couldn’t help but wonder if the injury reduced the usefulness of the eye.

He swallowed a glob of spit that unexpectedly formed in his mouth and continued.

“I heard steps and breathing. I heard Runa and Sven whimper. Poor little buggers were so scared they couldn’t even scream.” He paused again, unable to glue his eyes off the counter. A nod from a young stranger reassured him.

“I grabbed one of Aeryth’s spears and sneaked towards the house. I got within maybe ten, twelve paces from the house when they stopped whimpering. Scant later, the door exploded.”

“What do you mean, exploded?” asked the youth, frowning.

“Exactly what I say: exploded. Like someone struck it with a battering ram made out of Valenwood oak. Not broken, mind you: shattered and strewn about like glass.”

The young man’s frown deepened. “What happened then?”

“I don’t know, son,” admitted Hervird.

“What do you mean you don’t know? What happened then, what did you see?”

“Nothing,” said Hervird quietly. “Darkness and my age shielded it from my view. Whatever it was, it moved too fast for me to get a good look at it. The only thing that I could make out was Runa’s green dress. Aeryth got it for her when he last came back from Falinesti, and she seldom wore anything since. Whatever it was, it carried both her and her brother like sacks of feed.”

“And they didn’t struggle?”

“I didn’t notice it, but now that you mention it, I don’t think they did. Looking back, it’s strange that they didn’t scream.” He looked up, finally meeting his eye again, the fainting tremble in his cheeks, flicking of his tongue behind his lips and the narrowing of his eyes betraying the things running amok in his mind. “You… you don’t think it just killed them, do you?”

The young man seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “Where did it go?” he finally asked.

“Oh, it came right at me, it did,” said Hervird. “Would’ve killed me dead if I didn’t stick out the spear in front of me.”

“You stuck the spear out?” asked the youth incredulously. “What if you hit the children?”

“Dammit boy, it was the spur of the moment!” Hervird flared up. “Some devil came rushing at me and I defended myself. At that moment, the last thing on my mind were the children.”

“Did you at least hit it?”

“Oh, I hit it alright. But I don’t think I really wounded it. No blood, you see. But I did hurt it.”

“How do you know that?”

“It screamed.” Hervrid’s eyes dropped. He has lived through the Civil War and the Second Great War, where he survived many battles and witnessed unspeakable horrors. And they all seemed insignificant before the sound that would haunt his dreams ‘till the day he died. “It was this… this piercing roar, like no man or animal could do.”

Hervird felt the mug slide from his numb fingers and clank on the worn wooden floor. Moments later, tears started streaming from his eyes.

“I reckon the scream woke everyone up,” he continued, “but by the time anyone got there, it was too late. No children, no monster: just an ageing drunkard laying on the ground with a hunting spear and soiled breeches.”

“They asked me so many questions, son. And I had no answers. I reckon my mind ruled a werewolf as the only culprit, so that’s what I told them. But whatever that thing was, it wasn’t a werewolf.”

Silence dominated the room for good ten seconds.

“Frodnar there isn’t taking it very well,” Hervird added, pointing to the only other patron in the room: a man with a bush of uncombed hair and beard, slouched over the table next to several empty bottles, his face swollen and eyes red with tears.

“Can you do it, boy?” Hervird asked, a sudden spark of hope in his voice. “Can you track this thing down and save the littlers?”

“How much?”

“What was that, son?

“How much did your elders agree to pay to the Companions?”

Hervird had to stop and think. “Nine hundred Haralds.”

“Tell them I’ll do it for half that amount.” The young man stood up from his chair and reached for his bag and sword. “I’ll be back within a week to collect. If I’m not back by then, contact the Companions with utmost haste, and tell the guards that they must keep their torches lit constantly.” He dug a silver coin from his pocket and carefully placed it on the counter. “For the beer,” he added.

Hervird merely nodded. He blinked, and the man was already half the room away and reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait!” he cried. “You know what took them, don’t you? What is it?”

But he received no answer. The man has already exited and shut the door behind him, leaving the old bartender confused.

“It’s not a werewolf, alright,” spoke the man to nobody in particular, as he hung his sword over his shoulder. “And for now, it’s best you know only that.”

The cold air outside was refreshing after the heavy, sweet smell of the tavern. It started snowing again. A smile crept on the man’s face: it wouldn’t impede him in any considerable measure, and he very much enjoyed snow.

He set out.


	2. The Blizzard

As brutal as winters were in Skyrim, the Reach area seemed to have it the worst. Whether it was for mountains, the open north, or just general absence of trees and any viable shelters, the winds were merciless here.

The man did his best to shield the small bonfire with his body. He was used to harsh conditions, and was thankful that he was at least dry, but it annoyed him to no end that he had to shift his position every few moments to protect his only source of light and heat from the powerful breaths of Kyne. He wouldn’t even bother to maintain it if it wasn’t for the venison chop that was currently roasting over it. He chuckled to himself as he recalled what he did for it, and couldn’t decide if stealing from a saber cat was a stroke of genius or insanity.

He briefly rummaged through his bag, before producing a small, sealed jar. When he opened it, a dry, ashy smell filled the air for a brief moment before being swept away. He took a pinch of greyish, powdery substance from it, and carefully spread it over the meat. Living in a wilderness for weeks at a time didn’t mean he would forsake the small, simple luxury that was ash salts. He resealed the jar and stashed it away, before cutting off a small piece of meat and sampling it. Perfect. For a moment, he actually started to feel some semblance of comfort.

The blast of the snow that ensued washed it away almost immediately. It came without warning, without the shift in temperature. Just a violent blizzard that left him and all he had with him encrusted in snow in a heartbeat. Not wasting a moment, he grabbed his bag and the sword and rushed away to find better cover. He did enjoy snow, but not when it sneaked on him and jumped him like a whole pack of frost wolves. And when he was just about to finally get some rest. While flying aimlessly, he made a mental note of what to do when he got back to civilization: guzzle and entire pint of mead and piss it all out on the closest shrine of Kynareth.

As luck would have it, there were no shelters nearby. But he knew he had to find one: as hardy as he was, a pneumonia wouldn’t do him good. The off-task part of his brain tried to remember the last time he caught as much as cold. Despite living in Skyrim for his entire life, he wasn’t influenced much by her cold climate. It never really occurred to him that he got sick a lot less than the other childr-

World upside down. Rolling. Pain. Snowflakes still beating on him like tiny daggers. Crunching of the loose gravel. Abrupt blow on a hard surface. More pain. Then stillness.

He forced himself to get up. He was hurting all over, but nothing seemed to be broken. As he brushed the snow out of his hair, he inspected his surroundings; the uneven walls of dark stone covered with pockets of moss and mushrooms, darker but dryer from where he was moments ago. And what just happened aligned itself in his mind: while running, he must’ve slipped or tripped on something in the dark and tumbled down the side of the hill; apparently right into a cave.

If he wasn’t taught better by the years of experience, he would have laughed out loud. Not even his bag and sword were lost in the wild tumble downhill. Seems he finally caught a lucky break. A nice, mostly dry place to rest for the night, the only price being a handful of bruises. He leaned on a nearby rock and took a deep breath.

Wrong. The air wasn’t proper. It didn’t smell musty or dry, like a cave was supposed to. Instead, it stank. It stank or rot and decay, as well as the unmistakable metallic odour of recently spilled blood.

He got on his feet, alarmed. This couldn’t be happening. He spent the last five days tracking, asking the locals and wanderers alike, and getting only vague clues that mostly pointed to this area. None of them even mentioned that there was a cave. And now, out of all possible places, he’d just fallen head-first into it.

It would seem like he wouldn’t get much rest tonight.

Slowly, trying to make as little sound as possible, he took his bag and placed it near the boulder from which he just got up. Next, he unfastened his cloak, heavy with moisture, and laid it over the rock. The armour beneath it was leather, reinforced with thin plates of a dark, matt metal. For a few moments, he fiddled with the buckle on his sword belt, before lowering it to his hip. It was more convenient to transport it on his back, but he felt that he would be seeing some action pretty soon, and having it on his hip would be more convenient for that.

Carefully, he took a few steps in. Being forced to rely only on his good sight infuriated him to no end, but, that was the kind of quarry he dealt with now; light would only scare it away. Even drawing out his sword right away would be a bad idea. It would smell the protective oils on it, and it would then be one step ahead.

Deeper in. The stench got stronger. His boot stepped onto something that started giving away, and he stepped back. Focusing on what it was, he noticed he stood at the edge of a sizeable pile of bones, mostly animal, but some human as well. A lot of them were pure white, stripped of anything edible and bleached by time. But one smaller pile was noticeably fresh, still red with blood. He briefly squatted to inspect it: undoubtedly human and Nordic, its sex impossible to determine in darkness because of how small and young the owner was. It looked like he would only be bringing one child back home.

Suddenly, he felt something. It wasn’t any logical sensation, like cold, or even emotion such as fear. It was something beyond understanding and logic. The hair at the back of his neck stood up and he felt sudden weight on his shoulders; an unequivocal sign that he was being watched.

He slowly got up, his eyes darting from hither to yonder, scanning what little of the cave walls he could tell apart from total darkness. It was there. But where.

“He-ere, doggy doggy,” he called out in a voice barely louder than a whisper. He smacked his lips several times. “Come ‘ere, come ‘ere. That’s a good boy. Come out and play, you mangy son of a Reachmen whore.”

The cave echoed with a low growl.

He allowed himself a smile. No matter how many times he tried it, it always worked. His postulate was now proven.

The slightest hint of a whir behind him. He whipped around just in time to see a horrible gnarled shape lunging at him, claws outstretched. At the last possible moment, he dropped to the bonestrewn floor, and the thing flew over him and rammed itself head-first into a stone wall.

He jumped to his feet, and drew his sword: the silver of the blade seemed to emanate light of its own. And in the faint glow, he finally managed to get a good look at his foe.

Not even a blind man would mistake it for a human. It was taller than him, even when slouched over. Its skin, waxy and hairless, looked more like tanned leather and stretched over horribly emaciated limbs and thorax on which every rib was visible. The deceptively weak looking arms led to equally skinny fingers, each ending with a curved claw that could be mistaken for that of a bear in shape and size. The stench emanating from it was like a burning carcass.

The face was the peak of the horror: the mouth was lipless, revealing two rows of long, uneven, pointy teeth, in a snarl that would make a dremora weep in horror. The nose was crooked. The eyes, merely two green orbs, observed him with a mix of hatred and hunger.

He lunged forward, swinging his sword in wide arc. But the beast was faster, and got out of the way. He had just enough time to sidestep and narrowly avoid the swing of claws that would pull his guts out even through armour. Before the beast could retract its arm, he planted his feet firmly into the ground, grasped his sword both hands, raised it above his head, and brought it down in a swift chop.

The sound that filled the cave was exactly what Hervird described; a piercing roar. The blade struck the monster across the shoulder, drawing a long, but shallow gash. He jumped back just in time to avoid a fierce retaliation. He briefly registered the sickly brown blood of the monster sizzling on the silver of his blade before it was time for action again.

The beast lunged again, and he prepared to meet it. A moment before the blow, it abruptly stopped, and his sword cut only through air. Before he could bring it back, the claws raked across his abdomen, in a strike that sent him flying to the opposite wall.

The cuts on his belly burned like molten lead. The world became even dimmer than it was. Somehow, he didn’t drop his sword. He knew he had to end this soon, but he had no strength to stand up. And it was already coming for him, jaw opened incredibly wide, aiming for his neck. In the last moment, he brought his hand up, and the beast bit into his gauntlet. Almost instantly, it let go, screaming in pain, as its mouth and tongue steaming.

With a roar, he brought his sword in a wide arc. He felt the sharp metal cut through the tough hide, flesh, and finally, bone. The shriek that came from the creature’s mouth was ear-shattering. And he couldn’t really blame it: it was the pain most creatures experienced only once in a lifetime. The pain of having limb hewn from body.

The severed hand cringed on the ground as the creature flailed about wildly, trying in vain to close the horrible wound in its wrist with its remaining fist.

He got up on his feet. It was time to bring this to an end.

As the beast turned away from him in its madness, he had the moment he needed to plan and plant his next strike. The silvery blade swished, and the monster fell to the floor, in too much pain to even cry out. The tendons in its legs were slashed with the precision of a surgeon.

He leaned on the wall. He only now registered that the sweat was pouring into his eyes, and he wiped it off with his free hand. He noticed the scratches and indentations on his gauntlet from where the creature tried to bite him. There were only a few of them, but they were rather deep, exposing the silver beneath the layer of black tarnish. He made the mental note to have them repaired before his next hunt.

A pained moan snapped him back to reality. The monster was trying to crawl away weakly, blood oozing from its stump arm. A sharp blow with a boot to the back brought an end to that. As it strained pathetically under his heel, his thoughts wandered away to the bloody pile of bones. He thought of their owner, stripped of his or her life so early, just so that this creature could satisfy its greed. He thought of the parents, who probably still hoped that their precious child was somehow alive and well. For a few moments, he wanted nothing more than to roll the beast over, then shove the sword’s pommel into its eyes and watch them boil.

No. He brought down the sword in one motion, piercing the monster’s head right where the skull connected to the spine. It immediately stopped twitching.

“It’s leagues better than what you deserved,” he spoke to the corpse.

He yanked the blade free, wiped it on the corpse’s back, and returned it to its scabbard. He then took a deep breath, only to be reminded that he was still injured, and now that the adrenaline was fading, he had pain to deal with. He strapped off his cuirass to inspect the wounds: they weren’t deep, but the flesh was red and irritated. Nothing a quality healing potion couldn’t fix.

Rummaging through his pouch only awarded him with a bloody finger and smell of spilled potions. Maybe his fall wasn’t so lucky after all. Sighing, he pulled out his knife, and stuck out his left hand, focusing. Nothing. He tried snapping his fingers a few times. Nothing again. He held his breath, focused harder, and snapped his fingers again. Finally, a small flame burst forth from his palm. Not wasting any time, he held his knife to it. Few moments later, the flame went out. Not really enough, but it would have to do. He took a deep breath, and pressed the blade on his wound.

A drawn-out whistle escaped his lips. He was taught to never show pain, but he never quite mastered the skill. Fortunately, he found the way around it, and his teacher didn’t argue. He wiped the soot off the knife’s blade before sheathing it back. Then, more carefully this time, he reached into the pouch, and pulled out a piece of a broken potion vial. There was still some dense liquid in the bend, and he observed it for a moment before running his finger over it to get what he could. He rubbed it into his wounds, and immediately felt relief. It wouldn’t do much to heal him, but it would at least ease the pain.

Strapping his armour back on, he now began a more important task: the ground of the cave was hard, but he still managed to dig a small hole in it. He then collected the bloody bones and carefully piled them up inside, before covering them with dirt. It took away some time, but he felt that leaving without doing it would be inappropriate. Finally, he stood up, and muttered a prayer to the Hoarfather, asking him to speak for this child before Shor’s court.

Finally, he turned to the darkness of the cave. It was time to complete the final task.

“Come out, child,” he called. “Come out. I won’t hurt you. You’re going home.”

Silence.

“Wh-who are you?” asked the weak, frightened voice from the darkness.

“I have come here to rescue you. Hervird sent me.”

“Uncle Hervird?” The voice was shivery. “Is… is it dead?” it finally asked.

“It is. You don’t have to be afraid any more. It’s all going to be fine now.” Even as he spoke, his eyes fell to the mound near his feet, and he became aware of the futility of his words.

“Please come here, mister. I’m tied up.”

Without a word, he pulled out his knife and took a few careful steps into the dark, following the sound of the child’s breathing. There it was: just around the rock.

“I’m here now: don’t be afraid.”

He took one last step, and his eyes fell on the small body wrapped in brilliant green fabric, nearly dead from starvation. But moments later, he saw the rest of the scene, and he couldn’t help but to laugh out loud.


	3. The Return

The people of Riverwood thanedom, who were walking on the needles the past few days were besides themselves with joy when the young stranger came back to them on the eve of the sixth day, bringing not one, but both of Frodnar’s children, alive and unharmed, if a little underfed.

No time was wasted: food was brought out, barrels were cracked open, torches and braziers were lit in abundance, all job was abandoned for the celebration that ensued. Song, dance, and general elation were everywhere.

He observed most of it from a quiet nook. He was never much for celebrations, and has grown slightly weary of tearful thanks that Frodnar and Dorthe showered him with for saving their children. The anonymity suited him much better.

“You’re a right hero, you know that?”

He snapped from his thoughts: a young lady that he recognized as a part time server in Hervird’s inn was standing next to him, offering him a horn of mead. He accepted it gratefully: anonymity or not, free drink was always appreciated.

“I should thank you for bringing those two back: we weren’t this busy since High Queen Skeldi won the war.”

He smiled, taking a long sip of mead.

“I’d say that this fine liquor is thanks enough.”

“Mmm, that may be, but I don’t think it really relays the real extent of my gratitude,” she said as she leaned towards him doing her best to stick her ass out further and make her breasts stir more underneath her dress, “if you catch my meaning.”

He looked at her. Had she approached him when he was a few years younger, he would have jumped at her like death on a crone. But now…

“If you want to show me your gratitude,” he said before draining the rest of the mead and unceremoniously handing her the horn, “you can start by gathering the elders in that there house. I still have some unfinished business with them.”

She took a step back, visibly disappointed, but nodded and silently took her leave.

He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and took a deep breath of crisp air in the winter evening. It was the little moments like these that made life worth living. He lamented not appreciating them more when he was younger, but it wasn’t of much consequence; he still had a long life before himself, unless some critter did him in and had him for supper. But he didn’t worry much about that: he’s already seen all and killed all.

Fixing his cloak slightly to appear more presentable, he picked up the sack laid next to his feet, and stepped towards the house. The girl did her job, it would seem: the elders sat behind a massive oak table. Three men and three women, all but one of them with at least streaks of silver in their hair. But anyone who lived in Skyrim long enough knew better than to mistake them for frail elders. Several more curious folks gathered around to get a closer look. Riverwood’s Thane, Lydia the Dragonslayer, wasn’t present.

“Ah, the hero arrives!” cried one of the men, smiling beneath his thick brown beard.

“Indeed I do,” he replied. “But I am no hero; I’m merely a hunter. And the hunt was successful.”

He reached into the sack and pulled out its content. Someone screamed. Someone else knocked down a chair in an attempt to back away. Someone else yet swore by Talos’ name.

The already leathery hide of the beast was now sagging, and only the rope on which the head was hung kept it in place.

“Shor’s bones, boy, what is that thing!?” cried the same man that welcomed him just moments ago.

“This thing, Master Alvor, is a windigo,” he answered. ”He and his kind were once Reachmen, worshippers of Namira who… overindulged in the gifts of their Dark Lady. In time, their tribesmen learned of their inhuman tendencies and exiled them. But even that was not enough to steer them away from their path, and they stuck to their habits. Over years, they became less and less human, until they finally devolved to this.” He shook the head for emphasis.

Silence lay heavy over the room as the elders processed what they just heard.

“Namira?” said one of the women. “But, that means… no, it couldn’t.”

“It means exactly what you think, my Lady. They feed on human flesh.”

He could almost feel the wave of disgust that washed over the room.

“So you’re saying,” continued one of the men, “that this thing, this… windigo, took the children away, to… to...” He couldn’t continue.

“Windigos are eternally starving, Master Embry, yet unable to die from malnourishment. It is a horrible existence. In milder seasons, they’ll mostly feed on local wildlife or scavenge what they can. They’ll also attack men and mer, but only during night and only in wilderness. But during tough winters, when wildlife and travellers are scarce, their hunger will force them away from their caves and ruins, and into the human settlements. They’ll mostly go after children when this happens. Much softer, you know.”

A few people took in breath. Two tried to hold back vomit. One only succeeded long enough to sprint from the room and yet fail outside.

“This one,” he continued, unbothered, “still had some personal affects from his time as human, which is remarkable, really. From what I’ve gathered, he was of the Druadach tribe. What forced him so far away from home, I don’t know, but it is fortunate that he couldn’t claim any more victims.”

“Hervird said he stuck him with a spear,” added Alvor. “Said it didn’t injure him.”

“Master Hervird wasn’t quite sober at the time, Master Alvor. Had he been, he would have noticed that the spear he used had a silver filigree on its head. The reason you didn’t find any blood is because windigos are allergic to silver; it burns them and causes their bodily fluids to boil and evaporate.”

“Will any more come for us?” asked one of the women.

“Windigos revile the company of even their own kind, Lady Gerdur,” he answered. “This one didn’t even have a mate: only a cave filled with bones. And as I’ve said, he went uncharacteristically far away from his cave. So no, I don’t expect any will show up. But it is still best to be safe.” He returned the head into the sack and placed it on the floor between them. “Take this, burn it to ashes, and have a priest pray to the Divines over it for an hour or so. Once he’s done, scatter the ashes around your walls. It should keep them away for a lifetime.”

“A question, stranger, before we conclude this.” The speaker was the only elf in a group of the elders, shorter by a head than all of them, but without doubt older. “Why didn’t it kill the children and eat them on the spot? Why bother dragging them all the way to Reach?”

The throbs of unease in the room were almost palpable. All present were aware of the Green Pact and how strict the Bosmer were about it. That it was one of them that asked that question probably came out in bad taste.

“Master Aeryth,” he started, “windigos may be only be somewhat higher than beasts, but they aren’t stupid. They know that winter means less food, so they try to save what they can get. I suppose it is somewhat similar to us drying hams and ribs. By what I saw there, he probably still had something to chew on on the day I found him. Had I arrived a day later, this town would have an inhabitant less.”

“Well then; let us be thankful you arrived when you did, my boy.” The elf was jovial beyond what his face revealed. “Now, the part you are likely eager to hear about. Your payment.”

Aeryth reached under the table and pulled up a bag that was almost as large as his head. It fell on the table with a resounding thud.

“I am aware that the agreement was four hundred and fifty Haralds, but in light of recent events, we have decided it was simply too little for a hero such as you.

His brow raised as he opened the bag to inspect it. It looked nothing out of the ordinary.

“Inside, you will find five hundred Haralds, non-taxed. They are yours with our heartfelt gratitude.”

He smiled, and tied the bag.

“I thank you for your generosity and hospitality. If it pleases you, I would like to depart immediately.”

“Why leave so soon?” asked Gerdur. “Is the celebration not to your liking?”

“I mean no disrespect, Lady Gerdur, but I have been away from home for too long. I shouldn’t delay much longer.”

Aeryth’s lips curved into a smile. “How very thoughtful of you. I shall pray for your safe passage through this rugged land. Stendarr willing, we will meet again!”

“I should hope not.” he said, fastening the bag to his sword belt. “The only reason I could imagine us meeting again is if another monster plagues you. And even I, who makes his living from these things, do not wish that.”

Aeryth burst into laughter. “You are wise beyond your age, young master. Very well then: Stendarr willing, may we meet again as old friends.”

He smiled and stepped towards the door, but turned back midway.

“Before I leave, please: where are your Shrines?”

“A hundred paces to the north, just before Ysmir’s Falls,” said Gerdur. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” he smiled. “I just wish to pay my respects to lady Kynareth.”

\---

Already halfway to Whiterun, he smiled when he realized he could still hear the music coming from Riverwood. It brought him some joy to know that he inspired such merriment, but it brought him further joy that he didn’t have to be a part of it. He just wanted to come back to the only place he could’ve ever called home.

He tugged at the metal cord tied around his neck. A large amulet slipped from under his shirt: a silver wheel, richly engraved on the rim, with a detailed relief of a woman’s face in the middle, with two emeralds in place of eyes. In the dark of the night, the emeralds glowed dimly. Along with his sword, it was his most prized keepsake and possession. A gift from his mother.

His thumb caressed the face on the medallion, and the emeralds slowly dimmed until they finally stopped glowing. The spell that kept going for the last six days was finally broken, allowed to rest and recharge.

He was already far away that nobody would come looking for him. He slipped the amulet back into his clothes. Stupid for the magic as he was, he was grateful of the powerful enchantment of Illusion that the piece had. He smiled as he imagined the faces of some of the brighter people in Riverwood: it should occur to them about now that none of them had ever asked for his name.

\---

It took him only two days to reach the northern end of Skyrim. The castle loomed in the distance, half hidden by the snowstorm. Some decades back, it was home to a cult of powerful, pureblood vampires, before they were exterminated by the Dawnguard.

Now, it was a home to the Order of the White Cairn. _His_ home.

A small but well-built cabin stood by the dock, with only a single boat tied to it. The boatman, a grizzled old man named Edgtho, was sitting outside despite the cold, puffing from his ceramic pipe.

“Seems we’re both out late, old man,” he laughed as he approached.

“Go choke on a codpiece, you whelp,” croaked Edgtho. “I’m always out late and you know it.”

They both erupted into laughter at the same time, before embracing each other.

“Come on now, boy,” said Edgtho, wrestling himself from the younger man’s bear hug. “Come on inside and let’s have a round.”

“I’d love to, old man, but I really cannot. I must make my report. And besides, I’ve already been away for far too long.”

“And some obligations are waiting for you, I reckon,” added Edgtho bitterly.

“Aye, and that too.”

“Dagon curse you, boy! You never come and visit me! I could roll up and die tonight and you wouldn’t know it until I was clean bones!”

“As if that could happen, old man,” he replied. “You’ll outlive us all, mark my words. And besides, you’ve already forgotten that I paid you a visit just before I left.”

“You did?” Edgtho frowned. “Ah yeah, yeah you did. Silly me and my old head.” He knocked his pipe on the wall of his shack. “Ah bother it all! I know you’ll come visit your old uncle Edgtho eventually, so let’s be at it.” Showing the agility of a much younger man, he leaped into a boat and unfastened the rope that held it to the deck.

“In you go, whelp!” cried Edgtho. “It’s time to take you to your lair.”

The sailing was mostly smooth. Edgtho insisted on hearing everything about his last quest, from the monster he fought, the children that he saved, how much he was paid, and all that happened in-between.

“And,” Edgtho added, after hearing of the celebration, “tell me: how many young wenches did you roll over this time?”

This remark earned him a fistful of cold water to the face. He laughed it off.

“You had that one coming, old man,” smiled the youth.

“Damn right I did, boy!” roared Edgtho. “And well done,” he added quietly, smiling under his moustaches.

They made it to the other shore quick enough. He felt a wave of relief wash over him when his boots hit the wet, frozen ground. He never enjoyed boats.

Just as Edgtho was preparing to leave, he called out and tossed him a small sack. Edgtho caught it, and immediately frowned.

“Dammit boy, I don’t need charity!” he complained.

“Yes you do, old man. I’ve known you long enough to know that you’ll drink your next salary away. Drink this away instead, and get yourself something to eat that isn’t histcarp or halibut. And get some Telvanni resin and fix that boat, or we’ll be swimming to the mainland within a month.”

Edgtho’s frown melted away into a smile. He said nothing, merely nodding before sitting down and rowing away, whistling an old tune.

As the boat’s lantern vanished in the distance, he turned his eyes to the castle. The wall, built only some few years ago, encircled the main building, making it almost a fort. Seldom was there a window on the castle that wasn’t lit. He grinned: after months in the wilderness, he has all but lost the track of time, but it seems that luck has smiled on him and he arrived at the best possible moment.

It was the 15th of the Evening Star, and the celebration of the North Winds Prayer was in full blow. He took a step, looking forward to the warmth of a great hall.

A swish, followed by a resounding thud. He turned his head to inspect. An arrow, still shaking slightly, was nailed into the post. It came so close to his temple that it ruffled his hair. He took another moment to inspect the fletching. White feathers. He rolled his eyes.

“Who comes to us amidst such storm?” called out the voice from above the gatehouse.

“Naught but a lone wolf, searching for his pack,” he responded.

A moment of silence, and then the heavy portcullis raised, opening his path. A figure approached him, wrapped in a coat of russet fur.

“A bit late to be wandering about, innit?” the figure asked.

“A bit late to be loosing warning arrows at someone, Niromel,” he replied.

“Nonsense!” rebelled the mer called Niromel. “You know I never miss.”

“There is a first time for everything, and when that happens, I wish to be far away from you.”

“Far enough for me to hit you, eh?”

He said nothing, merely standing still as if he was waiting for something. Seconds turned to minutes. Finally, the ring of a bell echoed throughout the night. Then another, and another: seven of them in total. One for each hour. He grinned.

Niromel doubled over as a mailed fist struck him in a stomach with a force of a lance driven forth by a galloping horse. He fell to his knees and vomited on the ground, his golden face sweating despite the cold. He straightened up, gasping.

“Are you trying to kill me, you bloody idiot?” roared Niromel.

“Not at all, friend,” he responded. “Just returning the favour.” He continued towards the castle. “If I remember correctly, your watch should be over now!” he said loudly. “Come back to the great hall and replace what you just unloaded.”

“I only relieved Ronneth an hour ago!” cried Niromel miserably. But his words fell on deaf ears.

He arrived to the gates in less than a minute and pushed them open. The warmth from within struck him like a wave. It was a pleasant change from the frigid weather he spent the last several days in. The sounds of music, dance, and merriment drew him forward, until he stood on the small balcony overlooking the great hall.

Almost everyone was there: fifty souls in total, male and female, men and mer, joined not by blood or contract, but by kinship and fellowship. His heart grew with a fond warmth watching them; they were more than just friends and colleagues to him. They were his family.

None of them noticed him. Actually, almost none: a young man who just finished telling a particularly funny story just happened to look in his direction. His eyes spread as wide as tankards, and a smile bloomed on his face.

“He’s back!” he cried. “The Easterling is back!”

All conversation in the room ceased. Music stopped abruptly. The only sound heard was the crackling of fire.

A moment later, the room exploded with cheers and the sound of feet scrabbling against carpets and bare cobblestone. He didn’t even have time to step back before he was seized and tossed over the balcony, into the living sea that seemed undecided on what to do with him. So many hands trying to hug him, pat him on the back, pull him in their direction. The rush of such warmth and affection, especially with the contrast of the past few days, was at the very least violently jarring.

Before he could truly make sense of what was happening, he was seated at a table, a flagon of beer appeared in his hands and a small group was gathered around him, eager to hear of his latest adventure.

He started telling his story in detail, and they listened attentively. He told them of the inkeeper’s story, the long quest for the creature’s cave which he found by sheer accident, and of his battle with the monster and subsequent triumph. He told them of how he found the children and brought them safely home. The part about the shrines earned him salves of laughter, but the part after that had everyone silent. No words were needed: he chose a difficult and perilous journey to them over a heroic treatment in the thanedom, just so he could see them sooner.

“Always knew you had a soft spot for us in your heart, old boy,” said a large Dumner who sat next to him.

“Aye, as Rhyvos said!” cried a young Nordic woman, slamming her flagon into the table to accentuate her point.

“See, everyone,” said Rhyvos, “even Olga agrees with me. Who’d have thunk I’d live to see it happen?”

The room once again exploded in laughter. And he laughed with them, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t out of relief or irony, but of pure, unbridled joy. He was finally back to where he belonged.

He was the centre of much attention for the next hour, but he soon grew tired, in all meanings of the word. The same young man who was the first to greet him was the first to notice it, spoke once again.

“Our brother seems weary, folks! Let him go upstairs to get some rest.” He sounded surprised with his own courage.

His suggestion was met with approval, and one voice that proclaimed that “she wouldn’t let him get much rest.” The laughter resumed.

He nodded thankfully to the man, who nervously smiled and raised his cup to him.

He made his way up the tower with as much speed as he had left to him. What awaited him was worth pushing through any fatigue.

There; the doors to his chambers. He grasped the handle and pushed.

The fire crackling in the fireplace was the only audible sound. Combined with the obscene amount of red and purple on the carpets, drapes, tapestries and banners, the room felt warmer than it was. He assumed it’d belonged to a woman back in the days of the Volkihar, but neither he or the room’s previous owner made any effort to change much. Monster as she was, she had a good taste.

Of course, two changes were made. Some less tasteful tapestries were thrown out and replaced with a large banner with the sigil of the Order: a white wolf on the light blue background, howling to the heavens. The other change made was tossing a coffin that the vampire used to slumber out and replacing it with a finely curtained and adorned bed.

And there she was, in her silken nightgown, as beautiful as ever. As soon as she heard the hinges creak, her eyes lifted from the open book in her hands, a lengthy read by the name of 2920 _._ Her luscious red lips spread into a smile as she immediately leapt out of the bed, running barefoot across the Hammerfel carpet of red and gold, her auburn hair flowing around her, before throwing herself in his embrace. Their lips locked in a kiss.

It seemed like an eternity before they separated. Her blue eyes were full of tears.

“You’ve been gone for so long,” she whispered, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Aye,” he responded, “that I have. But I am back now. And with what I bring, I won’t have to go out until mid-spring.”

Her lips spread into smile once again. “Means more time together”

“Indeed it does,” he smirked. “Now, help me get out of this thing. I’ve been dying to get under those sheets with you.”

She giggled like a girl much younger, and immediately started unfastening plates from his armour.

“Anything interesting happened?” she asked, as she was fiddling about his spaulders.

“Please don’t make me tell it all over again,” he begged. “Ask Findel tomorrow morning: he’ll be more than glad to tell it to you.”

“Sounds like quite the journey already,” she said as she removed his cuisse.

“Damn right it was,” he responded.

“There!” she exclaimed as as the final belt on the breastplate was loose. He threw it off with relief, before stripping off the gambeson coat and the shirt beneath it. His back was now bare, ploughed by many scars, and marked with two tattoos. The one on the centre of his back was the same wolf that stood proud on the banners of the Order, only black instead of white. The other, much more smaller, was on his shoulder: it was a tiny bird in flight.

Turning around, he bent down and picked her up as if she were a child. An excited squeal escaped her lips, as he carried her over to bed. He lowered her onto the mattress and loomed over her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

He finally broke the silence. “Helena, I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I missed you, Gareth,” she responded. They were both lost in each other’s eyes.

He leaned down to kiss her when the door blasted open. A young Cyrod rushed in, blessedly ignorant that he was interrupting.

“Julius!” yelled Gareth while straightening himself up, focusing all his willpower into sounding friendly, and not annoyed at the irony of a same man who delivered him here now interrupting.

“Master Gareth,” he said, “you are being summoned to the council chamber. Lady Ara-” he abruptly stopped as he noticed the scene. Redness crept into his cheeks. Helena looked as if someone just swiped a bite off her fork.

“Well, Julius,” spoke Gareth, “as you can see, we’re a bit busy here. Is it vital to come down _now?_ ”

Julius seemed to be lost for words, just staring into the two of them. Finally, he snapped himself out and cleared his throat.

“Lady Araneya demands a report and the immediate payment of the dues,” he said, trying desperately to look at anything other than them. “She said to be ready in five minutes. But I’ll see if I can buy you five more.”

He nervously attempted a salute before running out and slamming the door behind him. Helena still looked ready to follow the boy out and kick him down the stairs, but her lips began to curl into a heady smirk.”

“Ten minutes,” she laughed. She suddenly turned serious. “We can do it.”

She waved her hand, and all fires in the room grew dimmer. Gareth only smiled as he slid the nightgown off her shoulders. He hoped he could muster enough time for both acts.


End file.
